


Riding Into the Sunset

by cosmogyrals



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmogyrals/pseuds/cosmogyrals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene deals with the aftermath of Sam's death and ultimately decides that it's time to move on. (Originally written before A2A S3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding Into the Sunset

Gene stares at the river, fixing it with his most steely gaze, the one that makes the scum of Manchester’s streets throw themselves upon his mercy. But the river remains implacable, refusing to surrender its secrets, and Gene pulls a battered packet of smokes out of his pocket. He turns slightly to hide his shaking hands from Chris and Ray. It’s been a bloody long night, and it promises to be even longer. Even cigarettes and Scotch can’t fuel him forever. He feels his chest tighten as he looks at the skidmarks on the pavement, the guardrail broken. Gene takes the loss of every copper personally, but - God, why’d it have to be Sam, of all the people in the world?

Because Tyler was a bloody stubborn bastard up till the end, he tells himself, but his chest tightens anyway, the what ifs swelling up inside him. What if he’d got back to CID sooner - but he’d been tied up with some punk kids selling crack. What if he’d shoved them around a bit more, got them collared sooner? Maybe Sam wouldn’t have driven off to the blag on his own. Gene shakes his head almost imperceptibly; Sam never could drive worth a damn.

He can’t remember what Annie’s doing tonight. She might’ve been working - hopefully not when Chris radioed back to the station and sent the place into a frenzied panic. He hopes to God she wasn’t there. Annie deserves better than that. They all deserve better than that - than hearing about someone’s death and having to quash down the grief because you’ve got a bloody job to do and you’d damned well better do it, because that’s what he would’ve wanted. Because it’s their duty, it’s in their blood. And in the end, the coppers are the only ones left to mourn their colleagues’ passing. Gene’s own wife is gone, tired of never seeing him, of the relationship that’s steadily fallen apart over the years. He’s got nobody left, and he doesn’t know how long it’ll be till it’s him in the river, or on the blood-soaked pavement, with just other cops standing around in silence.

Gene takes a deep breath and glances over at Ray and Chris. Chris is staring at his feet; he’d practically idolised Sam, thought he could multiply loaves and fishes and turn water to wine. Ray - well, there’s no reading Ray. He’d only managed a grudging acceptance of Sam. First Sam, then Annie had taken the promotion he’d been working towards for years. Ray, Gene thinks, is one of nature’s sergeants; he hasn’t got the instinct to rise any higher.

He tosses his cigarette butt into the river, watching the water extinguish the glowing tip. “There’s naught we can do ‘ere now,” he tells them. “Go ‘ome. Get bloody pissed.” His voice sounds rough to his ears, and he frowns.

He takes one last look at the water before he turns his back to leave. Though Manchester will always be home to him - his city - he’s tired of it all sometimes, tired of the never-ceasing river of shit. Maybe, he thinks, it’s time for a change.

-

Gene has to pound on the door till Annie opens it, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and tying the sash of her robe. Like most sane people, she’d been sound asleep. Gene can’t remember the last time he’s been asleep at 3 AM.

”Guv?” She blinks sleepily at him and opens the door wider so he can step in.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat, wishing he would’ve had a drink before coming in. “Annie, love,” he starts awkwardly, and her face crumples; she knows there’s only one reason why he’d be here alone.

But she tips her chin up bravely, her warm brown eyes threatening to spill over with tears. “What’s happened to Sam?” she asks before she presses her hands to her mouth in fear.

If there’s one thing that Gene _can’t_ handle, it’s a crying bird. And even though Annie’s nearly become one of the blokes over the years, he still feels awkward. This never gets any easier. He doesn’t think he would want it to. Gene clears his throat before he speaks again. “We found out about this blag, yeah? Last-minute tipoff, you know ‘ow it goes. Ray an’ I were out on a drug bust - I told Chris an’ Sam t’ wait, but ‘e thought ‘e’d run in on ‘is own.” Annie’s trembling now, and the tears have started to roll down her cheeks. “’e was chasin’ after ‘em, wasn’ watchin’ what ‘e was doin’ - took a corner too fast an’ -“ Gene can tell his voice is threatening to crack, and he swallows hard. “Th’ car went into th’ river, Annie.”

Annie buries her face in Gene’s coat, clinging to him as she’s wracked with sobs, and all he can do is hold her. The tears he’s been refusing to shed - _won’t_ shed - are welling up in his eyes, because, _goddamnit_ , it’s Annie and Sam, and he was the bloody best man at their wedding, and he _still_ can’t help but blame himself for it, for getting one of his finest men killed and leaving behind a young widow who doesn’t deserve it.

When Annie’s cried herself out, leaving two dark patches on the tan wool of Gene’s coat, he pulls a flask out and unscrews the top, handing it to her. She takes it without complaint, upending it and taking several gulps. “There’s a good girl,” he encourages her, one hand still on her back protectively. “Go back t’ sleep, love. It’s th’ best thing you can do right now.” Sam doesn’t have any relatives, no next of kin to notify. Just Annie. “I’ll call you when we find somethin’.”

She nods, her chin still trembling, and takes one last drink from the flask before handing it back. He wonders if she has any booze in the house - neither of them are heavy drinkers (though most people are light drinkers compared to Gene). From the sound of the liquid sloshing inside, this flask is nearly empty. He takes another one from his breast pocket and presses it into her hand. “In case you need it,” he tells her, and if she’s anything like him, she will.

-

A few days after the funeral, Gene contemplates the transfer form on his desk. A few years ago, if you’d told him he’d be transferring to London - leaving _his_ city - he’d’ve laughed in your face. But now he’s seen Manchester chew up too many good coppers and spit out the bones. First Harry, now Sam. Gene doesn’t know how long he’ll have left - not that he’s ever intended to die peacefully in his bed, but he’s still got some fight in him _somewhere_. Just not here. Not now.

Sam’s body is still somewhere in the river; the divers never found anything. Gene’s only been to his empty grave once, at the service. He’s never been one for lengthy mourning; best to just move on, try to fill the hole that’s left behind with something else. London seems a strange choice; as far as Gene’s concerned, the entire South is a degenerate hellhole, filled to the brim with whores and crackheads and every other sort of filth he can imagine.

But maybe that’s what he needs to get him on the right track, a smart kick in the jacksie. He leans back in his chair, studying the Western posters that line the walls. It’s time Manchester had a new sheriff to take care of her - and it’s Gene’s turn to ride off into the sunset.

Ray and Chris stare at him blankly for a moment when he pulls them aside to tell them. Chris’s mouth is a little slack, cigarette hanging limply from his lips. Ray looks like someone’s just delivered a right hook to his jaw. After a long moment of slightly awkward silence, they glance at each other and nod.

”We’re comin’ with you, Guv,” Ray tells him.

”Well, I expect that ‘air of yours’ll ‘elp you fit in wi’ all th’ poofs in London,” Gene says gruffly, but he’s glad they’re coming with him. He needs a couple of good, solid lads he can trust, and he wants his successor to build his own team, just the way he had.

Ray looks hurt, running a hand through his daft curls, as Chris tries to hide a smirk. And then Chris gets that look on his face, the one that Gene’s entirely too familiar with.

”Guv?” he asks.

Gene sighs. “Yes, Christopher?”

”D’you really think there’s an alien spaceship buried in the Underground? ‘Cos I saw this film, see, where these Martians possessed people, like, and made ‘em kill other people,” Chris explains.

He really wonders about Chris sometimes - but for all his daftness, he’s still a good copper, and that’s what Gene needs. So he rolls his eyes and responds, “Aye, Chris, an’ they’ve got nannies floatin’ through th’ air on bloody umbrellas, too. Don’t be such a div.” But he offers both of them a crooked smile anyway. “C’mon, boys, let’s go down th’ pub. Gotta drink Nelson dry before we leave. Dunno what we’ll be able t’ find in London. Poncy wine-drinkin’ girly bastards, th’ lot o’ ‘em. Prob’ly not a decent Scotch t’ be found south o’ Nottingham.”

Gene claps both of them on the shoulder, and they head out of CID and to the Railway Arms, all of them ignoring the void in a quartet that has become a trio.


End file.
